A Pretty Butterfly
by Knightfall1138
Summary: A parody of Doctor Malcolm Long's ill-fated attempt to unravel the mind of the city's most notorious masked vigilante: Rorschach.
1. The Calm Before the Berzerker Storm

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[First Entry – Personal Note #1]**

I was called in early this morning to Sing Sing Prison. They wouldn't tell me exactly what it was for or to what end, but I have high hopes.

The man who contacted me is a personal associate of mine who works at the prison with me. Whenever we get a chance to speak, I always make it a point to let him know that I'm interested in moving up. I want to be the one who takes the high-profile cases. The one who takes the media's questions on the matter. I want to stare the murderers and rapists of this city in the eyes and find out what makes them tick.

I want to be in the deep mud. The career-making mud.

When I finally arrived at the prison, the mood was erratic. The inmates were all screams and the guards retained a look of amusement. I had a guess as to who was brought in. A hope, I should say. And I was not disappointed.

It was Rorschach himself—sans his trademark mask. He sat calmly and quietly in the interrogation room. Not the most handsome of men but…well, hell, he's fug-ugly. Not even going to lie about that. Not at all what I was expecting. They used to say around the office that Rorschach has no soul. Now that I know he's a ginger, I'm certainly willing to buy into that fact.

But although I looked at him through one-way glass, I still felt like he could see me. His eyes were unflinching and cold, and they seemed to be gazing deep into me…

That was until I took a step to the side and his eyes didn't move. I'm far too paranoid when it comes to these things. Even waved a few times for good measure, with no result. Felt a lot better.

My associate asked me if I needed some time to prepare and I nodded in return. This will not be an easy task. The human mind is a dark and ambiguous entity. To unlock its most tightly guarded secrets is the equivalent of taking a ball of yarn from a rabid cat—one wrong move can set it off. Its reaction may be to either to claw my hand until it stings with that pain that just won't go away even after you wash your hands a million times…or to retract back into the shadows. To hide. To take shelter.

To a mental locksmith like myself, the mind of a criminal might as well be a Gordian Knot. Unmanageable and nearly impenetrable. The only solution is a show of force in the right spot. And I always find the right spot eventually, despite what my wife will say on the matter…

Rorschach, or as his file states: "Walter Kovacs", will be no more difficult to unravel than any of my other patients. This will be a much more intimidating challenge, to be sure, but it will only be a matter of time before we find out who he really is. Only a matter of time…


	2. Pleasant Introductions

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Second Entry – Interview #1]**

**[I enter the interrogation room cautiously and try not to show any pleasant emotions of any kind. You'd be surprised how many prisoners get offended or violent over a mere show of pleasantness. So, I carefully take a seat across the table from him, organize my notes and folders, and begin…]**

**Good afternoon, Walter. My named is Doctor Malcolm Cosby Long.**

**[Walter snorts at this]** What? Like…Like the television show: _Cosby?_

**No, I can honestly say that was my name long before the show, thank you.**

Must suck, though. Name held dear for years beginning to lose meaning. World laughs at Mister Cosby's antics, but real joke's on you. Pity.

**Absolutely no reason to **_**pity**_** me. I don't mind it at all, but that's not why I'm here—**

Do people ever ask you for _Jell-O_ pudding?

**Never, Walter. No one ever asks me for **_**Jell-O**_** pudding. [Lies. But he must never know.] Let's get back to the topic at hand here: You were arrested for some very violent crimes. Would you like to talk about them?**

Not really.

**Ah, difficult to talk about?**

In same way it's difficult to describe a ride on rollercoaster. You're excited, you know you had fun, but everything's a blur. That's why.

**Hmm. Well, Walter, this list of crimes on your rap sheet tells a very Rated-R story. The rule afoot is that if you're unsure why a person would act this way, then follow him home. What's your life at home like for you? Would you share that with me?**

You don't understand. City is home: like a foxhole to soldier in foreign land. Busting the murderers and rapists and thugs on streets is me keeping house in order. Sweeping filth under rug. Taking out the trash. Chasing kids off lawn. Hoping to improve resell value.

**Right. But you must stop sometime. Don't you have a place to sleep? A warm bed to return to?**

I don't like you.

**I'm sorry, but why not?**

You're fat. And you remind me of Fat Albert.

**Hey, hey, hey. That's not very nice, Walter. I'm only trying to help you. **_**That's**_** what I'm here for. If you play along with me here, you just might find out a little something about yourself in the process.**

Find out about myself? Who I am not hard to comprehend. No manuals necessary. No orientation or verbal instruction. Who I am written on every aging, musty brick that holds this city together. The enduring heartbeat of Justice in a city that has none.

You live in dream world. Where hopes play in front of you as if they could one day exist. But they cannot. Not in this world. You hold on to reins of dying horse as if it will take you anywhere. But you will see. Your land of color and fantasy will become as plain and as cruel as the way I see it: _Black and white._

**I see…**

**[His words are haunting. They clearly originate from an unclean and desperate mind. There must be something I can do to get him to let me in. Might be terribly difficult, though. And it will require all of my cunning…]**

Alright, I'll tell you everything.

**What's huh?**

I'm tired of you. If talking about Rorschach will keep you away, then I'll tell you every step of life.

**Oh, uh…Well, thank you very much, Walter.**

Going to need some pudding first.

**Pudding? Remember what we talked about earlier? I don't carry it around with me just because my middle name is Cosby. **

**[He stares at me like I'm holding out on him. I offer him a shrug, but with every passing second he leans in closer and his eyes grow narrower and narrower. It's not long before he's sneering at me. I try not to make eye contact out of shame as I pull a **_**Jell-O**_** chocolate pudding cup from my bag and offer it to him. He doesn't take it, though. Just smiles widely and nods to himself. This could prove to be a long session.]**


	3. The Abyss Judges Also

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Third Entry – Interview #2]**

**Okay, now I guess you know what this is…**

**[I slide a Rorschach inkblot card across the table for Kovacs to look over. He gives me a look of pity, but I wave it away.]**

**I realize the irony, but I want you to look at it and tell me what you see.**

Wouldn't call it irony. Stupidity. Ignorance. Obliviousness. **[He pulls out a worn pocket thesaurus.]** Blindness. Denseness. _Obtuseness._ Naiveté…Like that one. Point remains. Show me something without meaning and I'll only tell you something without meaning.

**Humor me, would you?**

**[He looks at the card blankly.]** A pretty butterfly.

**Good! Very good, Walter.**

**[His reaction to the inkblot tests are surprisingly bright and positive and healthy. I really think he might be getting bet—]**

AHHH!!!

**What?!**

Nothing.

**Wuh…What's…What happened? You just screamed suddenly.**

Did not.

**Yes, you did!**

Did not.

**Yes, you did! I have it written down here! Look!**

Why would you write that down?

**That's just…I don't know. Helps me do my job better if I write everything.**

Your job? Things tough at home, Doc? People at office don't believe you get any? Have to chronicle intercourse so you have proof for anyone who might ask?

**Are you asking me if I transcribe my sexual encounters with my wife?**

Not asking. Thinking out loud. **[Kovacs falls silent. His eyes judging me harshly.]**

**I'll have you know that I do no such thing.**

You lie.

**I am not, Walter!**

**

* * *

**

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[I burst into the room. She's waiting for me on the bed wearing the leopard print bikini I got her for my birthday. A Barry White song is playing over the radio and I hum along with it. Dropping my robe to the floor, I shuffle my way across the carpet toward her, making train noises as I go.]**

**Toot! Toot! **_**Ramrod Express**_** rolling into Platform 69!**

* * *

You lie, Doctor.

**Think whatever you want, Walter. Here. [I hand him another card] Now, tell me what you see in this one.**

**[Again, he hardly seems to look the picture over.]**

Some nice flowers.

**Wonderful! As generic as those answers were, I'm very pleased with your responses this—**

AHHH!!!

**Stop doing that!**

Doing what?

**If you're having flashbacks, you should tell me now. I have medicine for that. It's been happening to a lot of people lately.**

You have other patients?

**Do I have other patients, he says. Of course, I do! Why, Adrian Veidt was in my office last week. I understand you two were ever-so-briefly on the same team. The Crimebusters, was it?**

Hurm. How's Veidt these days?

**Says he sees burning maps when he sleeps. And whenever I show him these inkblots, he always says the word, "Squid."**

Huh.

**Yeah. I just took that as a sign that he hates his mother.**

Think you're wrong about that one, Doctor. _Dead_ wrong.

**Uhh…Well, okay, Walter, I think that's enough for today. I'll see you tomorrow. And, for future reference, try not to do any of that silly foreshadowing again.**

Hmm.


	4. Life, the Universe and Kovacs

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Fourth Entry – Personal Note #2]**

Walter Kovacs is a mystery wrapped in an enigma that's tied up in a bow of intrigue. A bow of mystery and obscurity. A bow of profound ugliness that flips you off when your turn your back on it. Speaking of which, it's a shame that I have to keep an eye on him for so long, but he just makes so many obscene gestures when I turn my attention. Does it annoy me? Maybe. Does it hurt my feelings? Let's just say that I've discovered it's very hard to write on paper that's been stained with my tears.

This man has just been so mistreated in his lifetime—so misguided. According to his records, his mother made it a point to regularly remind a young Walter that his conception had occurred during an encounter with a Central Park toilet seat. Even going so far as to take the boy to the restroom and to said toilet, justifying the whole thing as "visitation rights" to Walter.

Of course this was all a lie. Walter's mother was merely using the story as a means to create some kind of inanimate babysitter while she took to the streets, but the boy believed this story for many, many…_too many_ years. Witnesses would often find Walter playing cards with the toilet or engaging in a game of hide and seek. In my expert opinion, this toilet, during its term as Walter's father, was probably the best role model the boy would have for a _very_ long time.

I kid you not.

When Walter was ten years old, he attacked an older bully on a street corner. The bully in question was partially blinded in one eye with a lighted cigarette—then totally blinded in the other eye twenty-seven years later after watching the _Star Wars Holiday Special_. Unrelated, but worth mentioning.

After the run-in with the bully, Walter's case was investigated by the NYPD with all evidence pointing to the fact that his mother was, in fact, a slu...I mean..._streetwalker_. Given his history of abuse, he was admitted to the _Lillian Charlton Home for Problem Children_ in New Jersey for treatment. Although, getting beneficial treatment in New Jersey might as well be an oxymoron.

Months of treatment seemed to pay off. Walter showed promise and was described as a very "bright" child. He also displayed a penchant for the English language and demonstrated advanced persuasion abilities. One of his doctors committed suicide after sitting through a session with him. The staff at the facility weren't sure if this incident should count as a bad mark or a sign of improvement. They went with the latter.

I kid you not.

In 1956, Walter was informed of his mother's rather brutal death. When the staff couldn't illicit a response, they brought out flow charts, pie charts, laser pointers, and pulled the head off a _Barbie_ doll to reenact what had happened. Walter simply responded with one word: "Good."

They also marked this down as a sign of improvement.

There are also several other mentions in his file of his compulsive need to kick down doors, but the staff chalked this up to the boy's incessant need to express himself. He has also displayed an addictive personality towards sugar cubes which, in the face of everything else in his file, scares the living sh** out of me. Don't ask me why. And certainly don't ask me why I censored myself in my own notes.

…Ah, my wife has just entered the room. She sidles up to me and rubs my shoulders. I purr like a walrus. She has that look in her eyes. I'm fairly certain I know where this is going.

I'm gonna need to start a new page for this one…


	5. Answer Me, These Questions Three

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Fifth Entry – Interview #3]**

**[It's just after sunrise when I'm brought back into the interrogation room with Kovacs. He's sitting still with hands flat on the table and a blank expression. Typical. What's not so typical, though, is the fact that I had sex last night.]**

**Good morning, Walter. [I get a bit of a coughing spell. I had sex, dontcha know.] Sorry, I had a late night. [I wink.] Anyway, today I'd like to talk about something completely different.**

**[I had sex.]**

**I'd like to talk about**_** Rorschach**_**. I'd like to talk about the trials and tribulations of the last masked vigilante. Would you do that for me?**

**[I had sex.]**

You keep calling me by that name. I don't like you.

**What name? Walter? [I had sex]**

Calling me Walter doesn't make it so. Calling you by your middle name, Cosby, doesn't make you funny. Calling you "fat" repeatedly, although entertaining, doesn't make you eat more. Again—calling me Walter doesn't make me Walter.

**Oh, alright, then. What would you like me to call you? Rorschach?**

**[Walter groans and looks away. Did I mention I had sex?] **Not going to tell you how to think, doc. I don't like you. Many reasons why. Not excluding the fact that you can't keep your inner-monologues in order.

**What? Inner-monologues?**

You've been saying "I had sex" at least once every ten seconds since you walked in here.

**No, I haven't!**

'Fraid so.

**[I frantically check back to my notes and discover the horrible truth. How the hell did I let that happen?]**

**I…I'm sorry about this. [I look back and the man's smiling. Like he's won some game that I wasn't in on. Jesus, I can't imagine what the boys behind the one-way mirror think of me.]**

No worries, doc.

**No, seriously. I don't know how…[Deeeeep sigh.] Alright, let's just get back to the matter at hand, **_**Rorschach.**_** Would you mind telling me about your life? [I put my hands together. I don't care if it's begging.] Pleeeease?**

**[His smile grows wider.]** Very well. I'll tell you something, doctor. _I'll tell you about Rorschach._

1956. Sixteen years of age. Manage to get job doing manual labor at a clothing store. Had to handle female clothing. Best years of life.

1962. Twenty-two years of age. Have moved my way up the corporate ladder to the position of assistant manager. Woman comes into store and special orders very special dress. Made from Doctor Manhattan's patented fabric he invented during his ostentatious catwalk years. Black and white, pressure and heat sensitive material that was all the rage with the bongwater brigade during the sixties.

Woman came in to pick up dress, but threw a fit. Said she didn't like it and it was ugly. Flip her off and tell her the dress wouldn't fit her body anyway—would need to take the waistline out a foot. Fatty.

She storms out of shop. Lovely woman. Italian name. Kitty Diesrealese. Sure enough, two years later, she's killed outside her apartment complex. Forty of her neighbors heard the screams. Saw what happened. None of them called the cops. Even when I gave her a chair to the back of her head, they all cheered. Most of them screamed requests for piledrivers and dropkicks.

It was then that I realized what people were: Animals. Animals to be put down and beaten with chairs until they're sorry for making foul comments about your expert tailoring. It's the way of the world.

Justice is dead—this city lies on chest of her corpse, and people are but the worms that have taken refuge on it. But Justice should not die. People like me, who kill people until they die from it, need to be punished.

And that's when I made my face…

**Your face? I see.**

Forty people saw what I had _allegedly_ done that night. Needed new identity. Rorschach found his face.

**But Wal…I mean, **_**Rorschach**_**…that was just one mean-spirited woman. If I had been there, I would have suggested various wrestling moves along with the rest of the tenants, but you can't focus on the bad. You can't let one streetwalker ruin it for the rest of us. There are genuinely good people in this world.**

Like you?

**Well, no, not like me. I wouldn't say that. I've been known to break the rules and engage in badassery-type shenanigans.**

Like what?

**Pfff. You don't even want to know. You'd probably go blind.**

Are we talking: driving through the carpool lane with just one driver? Those kinds of shenanigans?

**Hell, yeah. Switching lanes without signaling. Jaywalking. Stepping on grass when there is clearly a sign nearby that is arguing to the contrary.**

**[Kovacs rolls his eyes.] **Wow. Color me impressed. You deserve to be in here with _me_. You're one bad mother—

**Shut your mouth. [I straighten my bowtie. I'm feeling rather **_**gangster**_** at the moment.]**


	6. Morale Smashers on the Detention Level

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Sixth Entry – Interview #4]**

**[I calm down and realize I've been singing the **_**Shaft**_** theme song for a while now. Kovacs isn't even bothering to stare or flip me off anymore—instead opting to use my pen to write a message to the guards that reads, "Want out."]**

**I'm sorry for getting distracted. It happens sometimes.**

Hurm.

**Now, what were we talking about? I can't quite remember.**

Was asking myself if killing you would get that song out of my head.

…**Oh…I don't recall you saying—**

If I needed a biased opinion, I would have included you in discussion.

…**Fair enough…I suppose in determining whether I should live or die, my opinion might be a little slanted…**

Why are you spending so much time with me, doc?

**What? Oh, well it's because I care about you, Walter. I want to make you well. Running around killing criminals whilst wearing a piece of a dead woman's dress over your face isn't behavior that warrants a **_**Get Out of Jail Free**_** card. I'm afraid I can't let you simply pass **_**Go**_**. Can't allow you collect that two-hundred dollar reward. If I was a banker, you'd never be able to own **_**Boardwalk**_**—**

I get it.

**My reasons for helping you aren't complicated. I just want to see you in a better state. What I'm seeing in this file is a bright individual trying to find his footing in this world. Won't you let me help you find your footing, Walter?**

Are you helping me find my footing? Or am I helping you find _yours_?

**[What does he mean by that?] What do you mean by that?**

It's obvious that things aren't exactly well in your life. House isn't in order. Glass half-empty. Maybe you bought a _Ford Pinto_ on impulse and now you're regretting it. In any case, it's not me looking for purpose. You're using me to find yours.

**Hardly, Walter. [Cough.]**

There are plenty of other people in the cells downstairs with more extreme behavior than me. One screams at the top of his lungs to mark each passing hour—the disturbing part is that he has no watch or clock or view of sun, but is always on-time to the second. Another claims he's the Lindbergh Baby and that he knows where Amelia Earhart's body is. Another insists he's a time-traveling rapist who will be paying "time-visits" to any prisoner that makes him angry when he gets out.

All of these people more insane, but then again, none of them famous. None of them will get your name in journals. None of them will get you television or magazine interviews. None of them will make _you_ famous. You don't want to make me well. Just want to know what makes me sick.

**[The jig is up! Get out of there!] Walter, I can assure you that this is not the case. [Bulls**t!] Nothing would make me happier than to see you recover from this path of violence that you've set yourself down. [LIES! Every word!] But, on that note, perhaps it would be better if we cut this session short for today. [RUN AWAAAAY!] It'll give you a chance to calm down and rest for tomorrow.**

Hmm.

**Good night, Walter. I'll see you bright and early in the morning. [Get in your **_**Ford Pinto**_** and get out of there! And don't let what he said get to you—it's a stylish car, dammit!]**


	7. Oil Speaks Louder Than Words

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Seventh Entry – Personal Note #3]**

I was hardly home for an hour when I got the call.

Apparently, there was an incident at the prison involving Rorschach…Well, to say that he was _involved_ is to put it lightly. To say that he Kentucky-fried a man's head is to put it quite literally. From what I gather, the victim needs a mask more than Rorschach does, which I _still_ find hard to believe. Kovacs has a face that I'd slap his mother over, but, of course, this is impossible because she's dead. And, in contrast to what many might have heard, slapping a dead person is not a means to a satisfying end.

Oh, well. At least I can still pee on her grave…

What am I thinking?!

Gods be damned! I'm starting to sound like that man now! It's been happening more and more: I can feel my very being slip away into a darkness composed of fat jokes and broken deadbolts. Did I mention that I've had the urge to eat sugar cubes lately? That's not normal!

Sigh…

I can't let this happen. I was supposed to affect _his_ life, not the other way around. I feel like Marlow, riding deeper into the heart of an immense Darkness. Or Han Solo going to meet his carbonite fate. Or Paul McCartney realizing that his songs are owned by Michael Jackson now.

I can't let this happen. Michael Jackson will never own me.

Also, sigh…

Back to the topic at hand. The incident at the prison. Can't forget about that. My associate says that the whole thing started when Rorschach was standing in line at the cafeteria. The victim was standing behind him in the line and asked Kovacs for his autograph. He held out a pen and paper, but he might as well have been pissing on Rorschach's shoes. There was no warning. Only a large amount of oil dumped on a brother's head.

Truly, a fate worse than death. And as the guards hauled Rorschach away, he spoke to the other inmates, saying, "None of you understand. I'm not locked up in here with _you_. You're locked up in here with _me_." Then he started into an anti-Jewish hate speech until the guards gagged him.

All of the positive things I said about Rorschach are slowly beginning to unwind. He's getting worse…_Kovacs_, not Rorschach. Why do I keep calling him that? _Rorschach_ is not his name. If I start calling him that, the Communists win…

**[My wife enters the room…Yes, I'm narrating my narration, bugger off.] Mal, when are you coming to bed?**

Quiet, woman! This Rorschach case needs a lot of attention right now.

**[Gloria]: Rorschach doesn't need your attention tonight. **_**I**_** do.**

Please, Gloria. That was then, this is now, and this is the hand I'ma smack you with if you don't give me a moment to myself. If I solve this case, it will be the end of a lot of our problems. Money will never be an issue. We'll have a bigger house and I can finally get rid of that f**king money-vampire in our driveway!

**[Gloria]: I thought you said you liked the **_**Pinto**_**.**

I hate the _Pinto_!

**[Gloria]: Whatever. Just finish up there so I can hop aboard the groove train tonight.**

Gloria, frankly I think it's unfair of you to bring up sex when you know I need to work!

**[Gloria]: Maybe I just notice how often you bring up work when you know I need an injection of Vitamin P. Maybe I'll just go next door for my fix.**

Wait…You and _Jenkins_?! You've been cheating on me with _him_?!

**[Gloria]: I need this, Mal, and his pharmacy doesn't close at sundown. Good night.**

Wait! Gloria! Are we still talking about sex or actual vitamins! Come back here, we can talk about this!

…She's gone. I'll probably never know now…Might as well get back to work.

"You're locked up in here with me," he said.

He's right…

Absolutely right…

…Vitamin P?


	8. No, Mister Long, I Expect You To Cry

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long****:**

**[Eighth Entry – Interview #5]**

**Alright, Rorsch….Walter. [Kovacs shoots a questioning look my way.] What? Why are you looking at me like that?**

You almost said it.

**Said what?**

My name.

**Walter?**

My _real_ name. **[He sneers at me. If his freckles could shoot lasers, I'm certain that I'd be dead right now.]** Surely, you must have been looking over my file. Scrutinizing my life as you have been for a time. Perhaps you're finally seeing the truth. Am glad for you, doc.

**I haven't a clue what you—**

You're doing what all good doctors do. You're diagnosing the problem. You looked at me before and all you saw was Kovacs. A demented—and fashionable—middle-aged man who needs to be set right by society. But now you see. You've been looking disease in the eye the whole time. Rorschach isn't the infection that has to be cured.

Kovacs is Rorschach's disease.

**I see [said the blind man who picked up a hammer and saw]. And how does this make you feel?**

Like I've been doodling pictures of sex on your journal when you weren't looking.

**[I look down and discover several…Wow, I'm going to have to start a new page or this is going to distract me through the whole interview.]**

* * *

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long****:**

**[Eighth Entry – Interview #5 Continued]**

**Doctor Manhattan's junk does not shoot lasers.**

Not saying it does. Saying it's possible, given his abilities.

**Why would he want to?**

Why _wouldn't_ he want to? He's already fighting crime with his pants down. Why not take it one step further?

**I…Ugh…Anyway, let's get back to this. I have a brand new sheet of paper right here. I want to at least get through one entry without one of us being juvenile.**

Hurm.

**Okay, I want to talk some more about your past. Let's continue this trip down Memory Lane and see if we can't make our way to Progression Boulevard, eh? [I look back to my notes…he had gotten a hold of those, too. One doodle in particular portrays the first Silk Spectre in the middle of a strip tease whilst riding a nuclear bomb…Creative, but inappropriate.]**

**Let's pick up where we left off. You make yourself a mask, decide to become Rorschach—**

Don't be thick in the head. Not sure your body could afford it.

**[Yet another fat joke. Wish I had the guts to tell him that my suit, as nice as it is, does not protect my feelings.]**

I wasn't Rorschach yet. I was just…_Kovacs_…Kovacs pretending to be Rorschach…pretending not to be Kovacs.

**I see [said the blind man who pissed into the wind and said, "It's all coming back to me"].**

Being Rorschach takes certain kind of insight. Takes intelligence and ideals and a voice that makes you sound angry even when you're not. Back then, I was constantly told I had the voice of an angel on helium.

Back then, was too soft.

**Soft? How do you mean?**

I let the criminals live. Not only that, gave them bus fare to get home. Little did I know at time, most of the criminals used the bus fare to get to their next bank robbery or their next rape victim quicker. Crime in the city spiked twenty percent. I hadn't done anything to stop injustice—I had just given it wheels.

Hadn't realized that the old saying no longer held true: that evil prevails when good men fail to act. There are no good men. This city's last light flickered out long ago. Long before my time.

Trying to defeat the evil in this city is like trying to stop the rising tide with a toothpick. Cannot contain what is only nature. So didn't try to contain it—I dominated it. Like I do when playing Dan at _Pong_. Claim my victory by a mile and then rub his nose in it until his glasses are beaded with his tears.

**I see [said the blind man who…Hmm…I guess I'm out. What about the one where two cannibals are eating a clown and one turns to the other and asks, "Does this taste funny to you?" Bah Dum Tsh!]**


	9. Nazi Shepherds and Fond Farewells

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Ninth Entry – Interview #6]**

**Sorry about being so late Ror….**_**Walter**_**. Had to run to the grocery store and pick up some food for the dog—that mongrel was practically humping my leg for some **_**Kibbles 'N Bits**_**. So, I got that squared away. Won't have to worry about that for a few weeks.**

**Do you like dogs, Walter?**

**[He gives me a dulled stare.]** Wouldn't say—

**Me? I love dogs. Man's best friend, you know? I don't care if that sounds sexist, I still won't let my wife go near that dog. Just like she's not allowed in the garage when it's guy-time. What kind of dogs do you like?**

**[His fingers drum at the table.]** German Shepherds…

**German Shepherds, huh? **_**Rin Tin Tin**_** and all that? Good for you, Walter, good for you. Personally, I'm not too fond of them. I say if those dogs are on this side of the Iron Curtain, they're American Shepherds. Bunch of Commies, the lot of them.**

**You know, I hear Hitler owned German Shepherds. The **_**Nat-zees**_** loved those things. But me, I'm over here, drinking a cold American beer and eating a burger, wondering if **_**Rin Tin Tin**_** is trying to stop some bad guys or further the Red's agenda.**

**The lines doth blur, my friend. The lines doth blur.**

**Anyway, I don't mean to take up most of our session like this.**

**[Walter mouths something to me. It looked like he said "vacuum," but I can't be sure.]**

**But while we're on the topic, why don't you fill me in as to your experiences with our animal friends. I never would have taken you for a dog lover.**

Hurm.

**Let's talk about your Communist Shepherds, then. Tell me about this dog of yours.**

Wasn't mine.

**Oh? Did it belong to a friend of yours, or…?**

Not friend.

**Okay, okay. Well, that doesn't really matter. Let's talk about your experience with these dogs then.**

Doc…you won't like it.

**Negative experience, then? That's okay. Come on, Walter, I'm in a good mood today. I'm sure I can handle anything you have to say. Maybe I can help!**

Don't want to spoil your good mood. God knows I would take pleasure in seeing your chubby cheeks lined with tears, but…

**Sticks and stones, Walter. Come on. German Shepherds! Go for it!**

**[Walter seems to stifle a grin.]** Okay…Here it goes…I—

_Editor's Note: This section of _A Pretty Butterfly: The Last Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long _has been deemed incomprehensible. It is at this point, we believe, that Doctor Long was unable to continue writing, due largely to the graphic nature of Rorchach's tale of animal cruelty, wherein he lobs a pair of mutilated German Shepherds through the window of a child murderer's home and goes about—_

_Editor's Note (Additional): Please forgive the note printed above, in which the Editor incorrectly refers to the murderer as a "child murderer." We would not have our audience believe that this grammatical slip-of-the-tongue insinuates that we were referring to a child who happens to be a murderer. Instead, we are referring to a murderer who just so happens to favor killing children. The Editor in question has been sacked._

_Editor's Note: Well, if I am, indeed, getting fired over this incident, I'm taking you all with me. It is with great regret that I must report that the Editor of the previous note will not date any woman who is not pale and blonde due to the fact that he has an abnormal fetish centered on the _I Love Lucy _television show._

_Editor's Note (Additional): That (ellipses) is an outright lie. I merely have a preference for blondes, but it has nothing to do with any such fascination with Lucile Ball's hilarious antics. Your argument, sir, has no logical basis._

_Editor's Note: I also have it on good authority that you make said blonde-haired dates say "Vitameatavegamin" before the date continues on. If you will refer to the article that I have telefaxed to you, this fact is made plain._

_Editor's Note (Additional): This article is filled with lies and pictures of also lies!_

_Editor's Note: I shall take that as your admission of defeat, sir. As my final act with this company, I'm going to conclude this note with all due humility, and ask for the reader's patience, since Doctor Long's notes cannot be transcribed in full. We shall pick them up at the tail-end of his freak-out session:_

**WHATHEFRAKITTYFRAKFRAK!**

**BALLS!**

**Why the **_**hell**_** would you do something like that Walter?! Why?!**

Maybe you missed the part where the man killed a child.

**Maybe you missed the part where you're a psycho! There are so many other ways you could have handled that situation! Throwing a couple of butchered dogs through a window to spook the guy?! Not normal!**

**Nope! I'm done. We're done here. You and me—done like The Beatles. I'm out.**

**Dog stuff is where I draw the line.**

Hurm.

**It was nice talking to you, Walter, but you won't be seeing me again.**

You're right. I won't. **[He stares at me again.]**

**I thought I told you to stop with that annoying foreshadowing!**

Right.

**[I close the door, loudly. But not too loud. Didn't want the guards to get a bad impression of me. And as I walk through the observation room, I catch one more view of Rorschach. He's sitting up straight, with his hands flat against the table. He's staring at me through the window. He hasn't changed. Since the first day I came here…nothing's changed. It really is, like he said, like trying to stop the rising tide with a toothpick.]**

**[You can't change nature. Rorschach will never change. Nothing ever does…]**

**[Except for my mode of transportation. That **_**Pinto**_** is someone else's problem now.]**


	10. Truth In Darkness, Despair, and Pudding

**From the Notes of Doctor Malcolm Long:**

**[Tenth Entry – Personal Note #4]**

I got home late. Decided to walk home instead. Left car at the prison. Grabbed a quick drink during the walk. It had been an interesting day.

I felt confused, beaten, and thoroughly conquered. If Rorschach had known this, I probably would have been doing a lot more smiling when we parted ways. But that was the thing, I don't know. I don't know how to help a person like Rorschach—because to understand a man like that is to understand why this city—this world—is the way it is. It's to understand the darkness in the heart of such a place. I admit: I'm not sure I'd want to look into it, even if I could.

This whole place seems different now. Everyday, I drove through, with everything just blending into the background. I never smelled the stink of ripe dumpsters, I never felt the warmth of a nightly rain on my skin, and I was certainly never called the N-word for not buying a stolen watch. This place has its demons, just like its citizens do, and in that sense—this city is alive.

I beat up the man who called me the N-word. Wrapped one of his stolen _Rolexes_ around my knuckles and knocked him to the ground. Before I finished him off, I declared "Time's up!" and slammed that watch into his forehead.

I picked up my briefcase and walked away. No one even seemed to notice. Is this what it's like to live in the dark of this city? People allow other people to wail on each other? They allow other people to make terrible puns as they do so? No, this city isn't alive—this city is dying.

When I got home, Gloria, my dearest wife, reminded me that our white friends, Randy and Diana, were coming over for dinner. Told her that I hadn't remembered, and she gave me the silent treatment until the doorbell rang.

It was a nice dinner. The food was good. Randy and Diana sparked random conversation. Boston's _More Than A Feeling_ was playing gently over the radio. For all intents and purposes, it should have been a perfect night. I should have been enthusiastically taking part in the discussion floating over the table. I should have been rocking out with Randy and throwing up my air guitar at the epic solo that would eventually play.

But I didn't. I sat, stared, and mechanically dished food into my mouth too keep up appearances. It all felt terribly wrong. How could I enjoy myself when so much in the world, and in my very city, was being chewed up by the darkness? It felt like I was trying to play _Texas Hold 'Em_ in the middle of a battlefield…with a clown…and I _hate_ clowns.

Randy attempted to bring up what happened during my much-publicized interviews with the infamous Rorschach. He tried his hardest to be lighthearted about it, but I was in no mood to filter the details.

"He told me about a girl who got kidnapped," I told him, plainly.

"Oh, boy!" he says. "Was she captured and helpless and rescued by Rorschach like _Dirty Harry_? Gawd, that would be awesome if you were to tell me that right now!"

"No, actually…" And I tell him what happened to the girl, and the precious, precious dogs. His pupils dilate and his wife accidentally coughs up a piece of pasta.

They didn't stay very long after that.

I sat on my bed, with the lights turned off, and stared into a Rorschach blot that I had lying around. After Gloria comes in and feeds me the usual speech about my sexual-retardation, she leaves the house—probably to Jenkins' place for her booster shot of Vitamin P, which I'm still not sure is an actual vitamin or not.

Back during one of the interviews, Rorschach had called the blot _a pretty butterfly_. He said it with cosmic indifference. He was lying, of course. What a pal, just telling me what I wanted to hear instead of putting me face to face with the truth…like he eventually did…the bastard.

The truth is that there is nothing on this piece of paper. There is no butterfly—pretty or otherwise—and there is no meaning. It is simply a picture of empty, meaningless blackness. There is nothing else that it can teach those who look upon it, other than what you think you see. You are glossing over the truth. You are giving meaning where there is none. Your mind is giving you butterflies to gaze upon when in reality you are riding a rollercoaster into a definite oblivion.

We are alone.

There is nothing else.

Rorschach helped me to see this, and I will hate him eternally for this.

Also, I left my _Jell-o_ pudding cups in the _Pinto_ when I sold it…

God…

Dammit…


	11. Editor's Note: A Lasting Legacy

**Editor's Note:**

Doctor Malcolm Long's notes are cut short after that. Try as we might, no other pages were found; at the disaster area or otherwise.

By what we know: Doctor Long returned to the Sing Sing Prison to collect his things. According to some recovered files, he had put in his two week's notice, but was leaving two weeks early. He had been caught up in the ensuing prison-break that occurred not too long before the disaster caused by ________ struck the world in full force.

We're unsure if Doctor Long had any further contact with a newly-freed Rorschach during this time, but we would like to think he did for the sake of closure.

With that, we must dedicate these published findings to the late Doctor Long who, through a streak of bad luck that only God himself could have brought on, ended up at ground zero of that terrible disaster. He was killed and dissolved instantly. Paramedics were unable to revive him.

All that was left of him are in these notes. His (attempted) humor. His fears. His ambitions. And his sexual incompetence. All are within these pages, and will be continuously published for years to come. We don't think he would have wanted it any other way.

So take these words and these explicit drawings of Doctor Manhattan's member and Silk Spectre's rack to heart. Reflect on them, and forever know that there was once a man, who looked into the eyes of an intense darkness and, through a trial of fire, got that darkness to laugh in return.

Thus is the triumph of Doctor Malcolm Cosby Long…

* * *

**Closing Notes:

* * *

**

Again, thank you everyone for the reviews and support!

A story like this was going to originally appear in my other Watchmen fanfic, _The End is Neigh_, but I didn't have my comic at the time, and I wanted this to have a lot of bits and pieces from the rather lengthy conversation that Rorschach and Doctor Long have in there.

But this was a lot of fun to write, and it was made all the more better by everyone who reviewed, even though I was clearly not funny. It was nice of you all to humor me, though. xD

So, as always, thank you to all the readers, those about to review, and those who reviewed during the writing process:

_-Agent0Gecko _(Changed your name! Thanks for reading again!)

_-Mister Buch_ (He probably could have broke Rorschach.)

_-rutger5000_ (Thanks for reading pretty much every story I have. xD)

_-Em-K_ (Welcome back! Thanks for reading again!)

_-MK08_ (You too! Thanks for reading a second story!)

_-ImaginaryPsuedony_

_-Mistress-of-Misery_

_-Chargeable_

_-Riot-Angel_

_-SilverFoxes-BlackWolves_

_-Mrs Maxim de Winter_

_-Murder Junkie_

_-Keeper-of-the-Cheese_

_-WrathoftheElite_

Fun times! If you haven't already, feel free to check out my other Watchmen parody on my profile: _The End Is Neigh_ (not Nigh). Stay classy, San Diego.

-knight


End file.
